


3 AM (is where we begin)

by cywscross



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Swap, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, College Student Peter, M/M, Older Stiles Stilinski, Professor Stiles Stilinski, Student Peter, Teacher Stiles, Young Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:46:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3715564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's three in the morning when Peter meets the love of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3 AM (is where we begin)

**Author's Note:**

> ‘3am and the fire alarm in our apartment complex just went off let me lend you my jacket while we wait on the sidewalk’ AU
> 
> \--
> 
> Apparently, I am incapable of studying for exams without coughing up fics like they’re going out of style.

 

Peter hates his life.

It’s not often that that happens; usually, life is his bitch, and he can coast by with his charm and intellect and manipulations.

Not today.

Today, he gets woken up at seven in the morning with a phone call from his sister, telling him in no uncertain terms that he was to go pick up his niece and nephew from the airport in San Francisco because Talia was too busy to do it herself, and then shepherd them back to Beacon Hills despite the fact that Peter lives in _Stanford_ and has classes _the very next day_. To make matters worse, the flight that Derek and Cora were on was delayed so Peter ended up waiting for almost five hours at the airport, trying to work on his English paper with a trillion people coming and going around him, and _then_ he had to put up with the two brats arguing over the radio station almost the entire trip home. They only shut up after he threatened to strand them on the side of the road, and then proceeded to do it when they called his bluff.

Peter ended up being yelled at by Talia and forced to turn around to pick up her spawn again. On the bright side, Derek and Cora were much more sullenly silent after that.

Of course, after dropping them off, Peter had to make the return trip back to Stanford, and by the time he got back to his apartment, it was ten in the evening, he was starving, and his English paper _still_ wasn't finished. Granted, it wasn't due until next week, but he hates leaving assignments to the last minute, which meant staying up late and slurping down instant noodles because it was the only thing he had left in his meagre food stores. He was _supposed_ to go shopping _today_.

The grand finale to this crap of a day came after he wrapped up his essay at one in the morning, stripped down to his boxers, and collapsed into bed.

For all of two hours.

Then the godforsaken fire alarm goes off, and here Peter stands on the sidewalk at three AM on a Monday morning in a shirt and a pair of jeans that he hastily threw on on his way out, inwardly seething and mentally plotting a nasty surprise for the asshole who set off the alarm with either some late-night experimental cooking session or an actual fire because this is college and kids are dumb.

Each is just as likely a reason as the other. Peter’s personally witnessed both. This apartment may be off-campus, but it’s specifically rented out for university students first, professors second, and everybody else last, which means that the idiotic stunts typically found in dorm buildings is almost equally likely to be found here. The handful of professors crazy enough to live in a place where the students are the majority mostly do it because of the location – close to school but not too close, with affordable rent and comfortable furniture – and none of them actually has any authority over the students while they're here. The students tend to take shameless advantage of that, which results in stupidity like this occurring on at least a fortnightly basis.

Oh, and did Peter mention that it’s the middle of February? He’s freezing, and his only consolation is that he isn’t the only one.

 _And_ he has an eight-thirty class in approximately five hours and counting.

Peter officially hates his life.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, ignoring the indignity of it in favour of trying to coax some warmth back into his system. Some kid glances over, his girlfriend clinging to him. The guy sniggers at Peter’s single layer of clothing. Peter shoots back a look that’s even more frigid than the weather, and the guy blanches before quickly averting his eyes.

Peter sneers and turns away himself. Honestly, he should move out. He has plenty of friends who would be willing to let him bunk with them, and they wouldn't be half as annoying as the idiots who share his apartment complex. The only reason he hasn't already done exactly that is because he likes his own space.

His jaw is now clenched tight enough to ache just to prevent his teeth from chattering. How long is it going to take the fire department to get here and give the all-clear?

“Well aren’t you looking a bit blue,” A mildly amused voice remarks from behind him, and Peter whirls around, beyond fed up with mouthy imbeciles, and ready to rip into this latest idiot who’s testing the last of his patience (and also for that awful pun).

“And I suppose you're dressed any better?” Peter snaps back scathingly, only to blink when he gets an eyeful of the person standing a few feet behind him and realizes that – yes – the stranger _is_ dressed better, bundled up in at least two sweaters and a coat, and a thick-looking pair of sweatpants.

That just irritates him more, although once he gets a good look at the man, Peter can admit to some appreciation as well. The guy has a few inches on Peter, and maybe a handful of years at most, though he’s more lithe than broad across the shoulders, with tousled brown hair, pale skin that’s slightly flushed from the cold, and amber eyes that gleam with an undertone of mirth. By the time Peter meets his gaze, the stranger is grinning a little, mischievous in a way that reminds Peter of himself.

The man makes no comment about Peter’s blatant examination, and Peter sees no reason to be embarrassed. It’s usually the other way around actually; people tend to blush and squirm under _his_ scrutiny. Mostly though-

“How did you have time to put on so many layers?” Peter growls rather resentfully. His own tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

The guy’s grin widens. “I’m talented like that. I could win awards for fastest dresser.”

Peter scoffs, torn between amusement and annoyance. “Practiced a lot, have you?”

“Years,” The man agrees cheerfully. “Of having to vacate the room when my friends get horny enough to not even bother sexiling me before getting it on.”

Peter outright snorts this time, a cloud of white fogging the air in front of him before fading again. “Some friends. Maybe you should trade in for new ones.”

“Mm, I have them pretty well-trained the rest of the time though,” The guy confides, and Peter feels his mouth twitch because he’d say the exact same thing about his own set of friends. “And I’ve expended too much effort on them to get a good enough refund anyway.”

A gust of wind blows by, abrupt and chilly, and Peter _shakes_ from the brutal reminder of how cold he is.

“You couldn't have been bothered to grab something extra yourself?” The man says this time in less humorous tones. “You seem smarter than that.”

Peter directs a scowl at him, no longer amused. “I was _asleep_ , like most people would've been at this hour.”

“Not a night owl then.”

Peter glowers. The guy just smirks back. Peter rubs his hands over his arms and turns away. He doesn't feel like talking anymore, or even trying to get a rise out of the man despite the fact that Peter normally makes it a habit to be the one to get the last word in. Right now, he just wants a hot shower before going back to bed.

“Here.”

Peter blinks and almost does a double-take when he finds the guy holding out his coat to him.

“Take it,” The man insists, and before Peter knows it, the jacket’s been draped over his shoulders, instantly submerging Peter in a sudden cocoon of gloriously bone-melting warmth. “You definitely look like you need it more than I do.”

Numbly, and not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Peter shrugs on the jacket, shivering violently as the lingering body heat trapped inside the coat begins sinking into his skin and thawing the ice in his bones.

He glances up. The guy smiles lopsidedly at him but seems content to finally shut up and enjoy some silence.

Peter buries his nose in the high collar. Huh. This is a new experience. Nobody’s ever given their coat to him before. Usually, it’s Peter who makes the gentlemanly gestures, and that’s only when he can be bothered to date a girl properly for a few weeks before he gets bored of them instead of just seducing them into his bed for a night or two. And God forbid he ever gives anything to Kate or Victoria that might set off their feminist sensitivities. Sometimes, he doesn't even know why he puts up with those two, but one is his best friend’s spoiled brat of a sister, and the other is his best friend’s girlfriend, and while Peter can’t speak for Chris’ abysmal taste in significant others, he’s still duty-bound to be considerate.

Well, no he isn’t – Chris would be the second in line to swear that Peter doesn't have a single considerate bone in his body, right after Peter who would naturally be first – but most of the time, he does have to practice tolerance.

So, this is new, and the guy in question isn’t even flirting with him, only being kind. Or at least Peter thinks the guy isn’t flirting with him, but his mind feels a little sluggish from both the cold and lack of sleep, and he’s definitely not on top of his game tonight, so he could be wrong.

“And there’s the fire truck,” The man’s wry tone of voice brings an answering smirk to Peter’s own face as they both listen to the far-off siren.

“It’s a good thing the building isn’t really on fire,” Peter concurs in a sardonic drawl. “And nobody was stuck inside. Or we’d all be dead by now.”

“Tragic,” The man deadpans. “People would mourn if I didn’t show up for class in the morning. Tears would be shed.”

“My professor wouldn’t do either,” Peter smirks. “I’m apparently ‘too arrogant for my own good, and someone, somewhere, someday, will snap and strangle me out of a bout of righteous fury’. And ‘no jury in the world would hold them accountable’.”

The guy cocks his head, expression growing thoughtful. “...Professor Martin, right?”

Peter’s eyes widen in surprise, but before he can ask how the guy would know (Does Professor Martin complain about him to her other classes? Peter is flattered. He didn't think he drove her up the wall _that_ badly.), the fire truck pulls up, a few students start hollering their grievances at the firemen, and for some reason, a fight breaks out almost simultaneously.

And quite suddenly, the milling crowd is being herded back while the professionals do their job, and there’s no more time for further conversation.

“Hey,” The man claps him on the shoulder as they’re jostled about with everyone else. His other hand is holding a phone, the screen lit up. “One of my friends just called, and he’s looking for me. I gotta run. I’ll see you around, okay? It was nice to finally meet you.”

And before Peter can reply, the guy’s slipped away like a ghost, swiftly swallowed by the throng of people around them.

For his part, Peter is trying to figure out what ‘nice to finally meet you’ is supposed to mean. Has Professor Martin really been waxing poetic about her most troublesome – but _best_ , Peter has made certain of that – student?

He wonders what year the man is in, what major. Something to do with advanced mathematics, if the guy is in one of Professor Martin’s classes.

It takes a few seconds of burrowing even further into the coat he’s wearing for Peter to remember that it isn’t his.

He breathes in the faint smell of coffee and chocolate and something like ink, all underscored by the scent of some mild cologne.

Ah well; they live in the same building so they're bound to bump into each other sooner or later. Peter can return the jacket then, and...

He thinks of whiskey eyes coupled with that sly smile and long-limbed frame. And their banter was entertaining too, well-matched and playful. Peter doesn't think he’d mind another chat or ten. He doesn't often date people older than him – they tend to patronize him and even occasionally treat him like a kid, and then get all pissy when Peter shows them up in the intelligence department – but he has before, and he prefers men over women anyway. Besides, the guy can’t possibly be too much older than him, and if he’s able to keep up with Professor Martin’s lectures, he has to be smart too.

Peter smirks. If nothing else, it’ll be fun.

And he can start by wheedling the guy’s name out of Professor Martin after class tomorrow.

Peter settles deeper into the coat. This thing is absurdly warm.

He tips his head back to stare into the dark of a winter night, ignoring the bustle around him.

Considering how shitty a day the last twenty-fours have been, the ending doesn't seem quite so bad anymore.

 

* * *

 

“Good morning, Professor,” Peter saunters up to the front of the lecture hall. He doesn't even get within five feet of the desk before the formidable Lydia Martin has levelled an unimpressed look on him to end all unimpressed looks.

Peter likes her, even if he does make it a point to drive her around the bend every week.

“What do you want, Mr. Hale?” Professor Martin asks crisply, gathering up her teaching material.

“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” Peter can’t help taunting, though he raises his hands in a placating manner when the teacher pins him with a withering glare.

“I was just wondering if you've been singing my praises after all,” Peter watches as Professor Martin gives him a little more of her attention, a delicate frown creasing her brow. “I met a student of yours last night who managed to recognize the death threats you always throw at me when I quoted one of them at him. Oddly enough, he liked me anyway so you must have expounded on my virtues as well as my vices.”

“You have no virtues,” Professor Martin informs him bluntly. A few locks of her strawberry-blonde hair slips off one shoulder when she tilts her head to study him. “And I can assure you, I certainly haven’t been wasting class time talking about you to my other students. Why would I inflate your ego any more than it...”

She trails off as her gaze slides down to take in the jacket that Peter decided to wear today. “...Why are you wearing Stiles’ coat?”

They blink at each other. Peter fiddles with one of the buttons. “Hm?”

Professor Martin’s eyes narrow. “That’s Stiles’ favourite coat. I should know; I bought it for him for his birthday last year because he’s wanted it since forever. Why do you have it?”

Peter glances down at himself. “He lent it to me last night when we were all kicked out of our apartment building because the fire alarm went off.” He pauses. “Do you often buy gifts for your students’ birthdays? Is it a teacher’s pet thing? I’m hurt; if anyone, I thought I’d make that list but all you gave me on my birthday was an A+ on my midterm.”

He smirks at the long-suffering look on his teacher’s face. He took one of her classes last semester as well, and his birthday was in October.

And then, “Stiles isn’t my student,” she reveals, and this time, she’s the one smirking. “He’s my best friend. Also, he’s head of the Classical Studies department, and he teaches mythology and history here.”

Peter stares, for once, lost for words. Professor Martin is definitely laughing at him on the inside.

“...He’s only a little older than I am,” Peter argues for lack of anything else to say, and then he instantly wants to take it back because he of all people should know that age should never be a deciding factor when judging someone.

“He’s young for a department head, not to mention the number of degrees he has,” Professor Martin acknowledges, a smile playing around her mouth. “But he isn’t _that_ young. You're, what, twenty-two, Mr. Hale?”

Peter nods distractedly, picturing Stiles’ face in his mind ( _What kind of name is Stiles? Is that a nickname?_ ).

“Stiles will be thirty-five in April,” Professor Martin divulges, and Peter almost gapes. His teacher sighs mournfully as if he did. “I know; he has such nice skin. He ages well. We’re all jealous.”

Her eyes sharpen then, and her posture straightens, becoming more serious. “But what do you want with him? If you just want to return that jacket, I can take it off your hands now. I’m having dinner with him tonight so I’ll see him long before you bump into him again, even if you do live in the same building.”

Even Peter is surprised by the sudden surge of aversion that that offer stirs in him. The desire to say no is instantaneous and fierce and makes something in him bristle defensively.

“I can return it myself actually,” Peter replies, all charm and smiles that makes Professor Martin arch a skeptical eyebrow. “I’d like to thank him personally. If he hadn't come by when he did, I might’ve frozen to death. I can find his office easily enough.”

He thinks back and then leans forward, interest piqued. “He did say it was nice to finally meet me.”

Professor Martin smirks. “Well, I have to complain to someone about you. Don’t worry; I didn't tell him about _every_ disruptive incident you were responsible for.”

She stops, considers him, long enough that it makes Peter want to fidget.

“Stiles read some of the papers you wrote for your law courses,” She finally tells him. “He was...” Her mouth curves with amusement. “-rather enamoured. Came up with some interesting counterarguments too. That’s probably why he approached you. Maybe now he’ll talk your ear off instead of mine.”

She looks like she wants to say something more, but then she shakes her head and picks up her bag instead, and the conversation is evidently over. “Go then, if you want to return his coat. I have another class to teach and no more time to feed your curiosity.”

Peter goes. It doesn't matter that the man – Stiles – is a teacher, he decides, and that he’s over twelve years older.

_“He was... rather enamoured. Came up with some interesting counterarguments too. That’s probably why he approached you. Maybe now he’ll talk your ear off instead of mine.”_

How interesting.

Peter’s never been one to deny himself what he wants anyway.

 

* * *

 

Stiles – _Professor Stilinski_ – is in his office, and the door is open. Peter spends a few minutes leaning against the doorway, taking in the office and observing its occupant. The room is the very definition of controlled chaos, with knick-knacks and paperwork and books piled everywhere, along with a mini-fridge in the corner. Peter approves of the packets of Reese’s stacked on top. He also notices what must be a family photo on the edge of the desk, a much younger Stiles with a woman who has the same eyes, sitting in a yard beside a bed of tiger lilies, both of them smiling.

The man in question doesn't notice Peter at all, curled over some huge texts, a stack of papers at his elbow, and chewing on a red pen. He’s wearing a ridiculous plaid shirt coupled with black-rimmed glasses that are strangely fitting on his face.

Peter clears his throat. Stiles’ head jerks up, and he almost knocks the stack of papers to the floor.

“What-” The man’s eyes widen. “Oh, it’s you. Um.”

He seems much more off-balanced than last night. It makes Peter smile.

“Well, you should already know my name,” Peter takes a step into the office. “Seeing as you've read my debate papers.”

For a moment, Stiles just stares, bewildered, and then – endearingly enough – a red flush rises in his cheeks, lingering only for second but there all the same. It’s his bad luck that he was cursed with pale skin.

“I swear, that woman,” Stiles mutters grouchily, and Peter has to grin at the exasperated tone of voice.

Stiles ends up heaving a sigh before taking off his glasses and peering up at him. “So. Mr. Hale then.”

“Peter,” Peter corrects, strolling further into the room. “I’m not in any of your classes, or even the same department, and apparently, we practically live together.”

Stiles slowly raises an eyebrow. The longer Peter stays and presses his advantage, the more equilibrium the older man seems to regain instead of lose, and isn’t that fascinating?

“Oh really? And because we’re suddenly such good neighbours, you've decided to visit me at work wearing my coat instead of just handing it over to Lydia?”

Peter smirks, coming to a stop about a foot away from Stiles. This close, he can see the scatter of moles dotting smooth flawless skin.

“As I told her, I wanted to thank you personally.” He sways a few inches closer. “So how about dinner on me, and I’ll spend it destroying every last one of those ‘counterarguments’ you’ve come up with against the points I brought up in my papers? And we can end the night with a discussion over the theories in your latest published dissertation on the betterment of governmental structure in Mycenaean society.”

This earns him a startled bark of laughter that sounds a lot like delight, followed by a measured look that mixes mirth with something more somber. “Did you research me before coming here?”

Peter waves a hand in the air. “I believe in being prepared and stacking the deck in my favour whenever possible.”

“In addition to sneaking at least a few aces up your sleeves when no one’s looking, right?” Stiles enquires with rhetoric dryness, and Peter smirks wordlessly in reply.

Stiles regards him for several seconds longer before he half-turns away to dump the books in his lap on his desk. “That sounds awfully like a date, you know.”

“I should hope so,” Peter agrees. “Since that’s exactly what it’ll be.”

“And you're wooing me with promises of academic discussions instead of flowers and chocolate,” Stiles notes, mouth curling into a smile again before it’s forcibly tucked away. “You’re aware of the age gap, yeah?”

Peter shrugs. “Yes. I don’t mind.” He pauses before adding, “And you don’t either. Apparently, you noticed me first.”

There’s that blush again, crawling up his neck. Peter thinks he kind of adores it already.

“I was just curious about you,” Stiles huffs. “Not many people can ace Lydia’s courses, and your papers were some of the best I've ever come across.”

Peter has never been so honestly complimented before. People in general don’t like complimenting him, go figure. Even his parents only ever gave cursory keep-up-the-good-work’s when he brought home straight A’s. Talia on the other hand was plied with encouragement and praise despite the fact that Peter’s GPA has always been better. His sister was the heir to Hale Corporations, not him, and so he was often disregarded in favour of his sibling.

It used to grate on his nerves a lot more than it does now, but that doesn't mean Stiles’ genuine admiration doesn't strike something in him that Peter thought was long dead.

“And you were in danger of coming down with hypothermia,” Stiles tacks on. “I couldn't just leave you shivering on the sidewalk. Lydia would've never forgiven me. She secretly loves you, but don’t tell her I told you.”

Peter smirks smugly at that. He knew it.

“So then?” Peter presses. “Come on, Stiles.” Stiles’ eyebrows go up. “I’m just asking for a date, not forever.”

 _Not yet_ , comes the unbidden thought, which Peter promptly shunts to the back of his mind to analyze at another time.

“And if it’s bad for your reputation,” Peter coaxes. “We can always keep it quiet. I don’t mind.”

Stiles quirks a smile at this. “If I date you, Peter, I’m not going to hide it. That’s not how I do relationships.”

He examines Peter for a moment longer, and Peter wonders what he sees.

And then Stiles is setting aside his glasses and unfolding himself from the chair with the easy grace of a gazelle, and it wasn't hard to forget when Stiles was sitting down, but when he stands, Peter is reminded all over again of Stiles’ superior height – no matter how slight – when he has to tilt his head back just a little to maintain eye-contact.

Stiles doesn't kiss him or anything. Instead, he reaches for the coat that Peter is still wearing, smoothing out the shoulders and adjusting the slightly wind-ruffled collar before stepping back.

“I have dinner with Lydia tonight,” Stiles tells him, amber eyes warm and entirely focused on Peter like there’s nothing else in the world. “But I’m free tomorrow night. I live in 213; why don’t you come by and pick me up?”

Peter brightens, thrilled and triumphant at the same time. “I’ll swing by at six-thirty.”

“Six-thirty,” Stiles agrees, taking a step back, but – now that he as good as has the go-ahead – Peter reels him back with a tug of his shirt and boldly steals the first kiss.

Stiles breathes a laugh against his mouth before returning the chaste press of lips, and then he pulls back before it can get any deeper. Peter makes a moue of disappointment but it’s soon replaced by a cocky smirk.

“I’m keeping your coat then?” It isn’t really a question.

“If we botch our first date,” Stiles retorts with that increasingly familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. “You’ll have something to throw at me at the end of it.”

“I guess I’ll be keeping it for a while then,” Peter counters loftily. “Nobody botches a date when they’re with me.”

And with that said, he sweeps out of the office, already considering which restaurant he’ll be taking Stiles come tomorrow.

“Peter?”

He glances back. Stiles has stuck his head out around the door. He grins a vivid dare. “Better brush up on your homework. I may not have majored in Law, but if anybody’s destroying arguments tomorrow, it’s going to be me.”

He knocks once against the doorframe before disappearing inside again with a last fleeting smile, leaving Peter with a challenge that he has no intention of losing.

He’s beginning to see a pattern though. Stiles likes having the last word just as much as Peter does.

 

* * *

 

Peter lives in 230. He shows up at Stiles’ door five minutes early.

Stiles laughs, surprised and happy, when Peter produces a bouquet of tiger lilies and a box of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups with a dramatic flourish.

“You mentioned flowers and chocolate,” Peter reminds him smugly.

“I know,” Stiles concedes with eyes that look at Peter and absolutely nothing else, and this time, Stiles is the one who initiates a kiss.

It is their second of many in all the years to come.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


End file.
